


I'll Be Home For Christmas

by lebarkingdeer



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes' Motorcycle, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gay Bucky Barnes, Gratuitous Hand Holding, M/M, Nomad Steve Rogers, One Shot, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Romance, Steve doesn't make the most out of character choice in his life, Steve will always be there for Bucky, White Wolf Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:14:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24298675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lebarkingdeer/pseuds/lebarkingdeer
Summary: Christmas ambience is hard to let go of, and for two Brooklyn born boys, you just can't spend that time in Wakanda. So Steve and Bucky return home for the Holidays and happily loose themselves to normalcy. It's cold, strangers around them are having a crazy time, but everything in their bubble is perfect.--Just a one-shot capturing a very small, but important moment for these two. I always write my characters as happy in the end, because I wouldn't want them any other way.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	I'll Be Home For Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This was written years and years ago, and what with quarantine happening, I've been wanting to get back into writing and thought I'd settle this onto my AO3 account from the depths of my Google Drive to get back into the spur of things. Hope you are all well, and if not, then I hope you can find something small to make your day a little brighter! Happy reading!

Bustling streets and barking people were just part of the holiday cheer, just as much as the tinsel, the golden lights and royal red ornaments in the shop windows, and passing circles of wreaths that hung around light poles or on bare bone trees. It was cold and fresh in that timeless way of knowing the season, and as friendly as the tunes on the radio that had not changed since they had been sent out in their twentieth century times. That is what made it the holiday cheer of winter time. 

It was perfect for sharing with someone, for following in whatever corporate tradition that had been passed down for who-knows-how-long, of either agonizing-over-everything or watching it all stroll by, and you merely were fortunate enough to keep walking along on your own time, one of those tunes humming on your chilled lips, cracked from the flying by flakes, and mind thoughtful with the this-and-that of whatever made this time of year so intimate for yourself. 

To finally be able to snuggle beside a fire with someone, to watch the lights pass in their eyes when the two of you went out on nights that were quiet with children laughing distantly and adults calling for their cabs home when moving outside to look at the neighborhood decorations. How you always reminded each other to “bundle up,” in an extra hat or scarf even though you would surely be warmed by each other’s breath in celebratory kisses of nothing mixed; hot-chocolate steaming under your noses, the marshmallows bobbing. It was perfect and it was well spent, here at home. Eyes closed as much as they ever could to what you had seen in your too-many-years of life, both of you, as you made the decision to return to the privacy of winter sentiments. Back here. Home. 

Steve pulled his hat down tighter around his head with one hand, the other preoccupied with a very important task.

This was not Wakanda, as they had decided that there was no way to spend their winter months there, especially when no one around them shared any similar cheers for it all (no matter how giving and gracious their life, and all they had there). They had made sure to leave with toasty goodbyes and gifts of general thanks. But there were no mittens, no scarves, no walking on frozen ponds in your winter boots. Hot chocolate? It sounded more like some kind of mediveal myth or torture device under the beating African sun. 

Bucky jostled the fingers of his metal hand that were entwined in the other man’s. He had, a now unneeded, habit of keeping them loose when the cold started to stretch in; Siberia and Russia had been much more unforgiving and the “tech” there had been low. 

Both turned to smile at the other when they caught each other’s eyes. Their hands only broke apart for a split second as a group of boys and girls ran through their space carrying snowballs and giggles. Said hands came back together when the tide had passed. Their smiles were wider on their faces. 

They looked almost like they wanted to say something, but the intimacy of Nothing suited them quite well instead as they continued on their walk, passing by a statue of a familiar, winter, Alaskan hero and his lolling tongue. The canine appeared quite happy to see the dancing white across the park. 

“Hungry?” Came the voice from one.

“Not really. Cold?” Bucky turned his snow dusted eyelashes towards his well shaped Nomad (even hidden under parkas and scarves). 

“No. I’d like to think not.” Steve brushed the hand that had pulled at his hat through his beard to free the chill from its tips. He looked with honesty through blue eyes etched with green. 

Bucky reached up to mimic his partner’s motion through that beard, soft but quick, before letting what was the flesh hand dig back into the pocket of his brown jacket. Steve almost felt like chasing it with his chapped lips and his eyes wrinkled at the corners from the smile he bore. Bucky much appreciated it either way, and the feeling was shown clearly in the way his chest expanded and deflated with ease.

“Want to head home?”

‘Home’ for the months was the brick-made apartment in a less familiar area of Manhattan, nothing that held onto memories or picked at heartstrings aside of the architecture and natural feel of New York. Maybe they’d buy it when they had had their fill of setting suns and bleating goats.

“That sounds about ‘right to me.” Steve continued their rhythmic steps so that their bodies headed further along the park trail, their breath accenting past their faces in clouds of frost where they had been as they walked. Bucky’s thoughts strayed a bit mindlessly in the accent of their Brooklyn voices that neither could ever get rid of.

They walked on until their feet met pavement decorated by hot dog vendors, roasted chestnut sellers, and the rest of the city milling on with their shopping bags and snow thrusted curses. The duo simply moved past each accordingly until they came to the Harley Davidson propped in a semi-appropriate parking space, and Bucky swung his leg over first to settle at the helm. Steve was more than content to ease himself on behind, remarking in his subconscious that the White Wolf seemed more than happy to do the driving for the day. He then relished in wrapping his arms around the waist of the other man as Bucky kicked the bike to a start, revving softly at the engine before taking them both off and down the suddenly blistery streets.


End file.
